Osprey
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St. Carmen
Saint Carmen
I was dog tired. I was working. I was working for her, for both of us but for her and Javier. She knew that, she knew that sometimes I don’t come
straight home from the hotel after work.
She knew about me and Yadira I think. She didn’t say anything about it. We never talked about it, why I was so late sometimes, sometimes just
showered, got in bed and rolled over to sleep. She would get up, go sit with Javier, hold him – I couldn’t really see her in the darkness but I knew
she was there, by the window, not beside me. I hated the silence then; just the nightbirds, the dogs yipping out there somewhere would cover the shame
hanging there but only for scant seconds.
In the morning, nothing. Nothing said. Tea, beans, tortillas, maybe eggs, Javier playing on the floor at my feet. She doesn’t know her own culture.
She should be laughing, playing with Javier, happy. There’s no reason for her to sulk, keep her disappointment to herself like some good Christian
martyr. This suffering in silence is worse than if she scolded me, got it out in the open. At least then we could talk, talk about our heritage, our
culture, how my love for her is different, how the other thing with Yadira or others is just dalliance, not family love, not real love. It’s like a
little reward thing, like a little fun for doing my job, for working hard.
Well, it’s a little late now for apologies, excuses, confessions, contrition. All their clothes are gone. I can’t believe she took them all – even the
toys. If she had left some clothes I would have hope, hope she might reconsider, might come back. She can’t possibly be going to live with Auralia,
her mother, at the ranch. I don’t know if she could have hid away enough money to go to Mexico to be with her tia Berta in Tepic.
I don’t know what is going to be worse, living here alone I won’t need to please a martyr in my own home or just staying here to sleep, store my
things, keep paying rent for almost nothing. Unless she writes, I won’t know where she went. How could she just take the boy? Without a word? She
doesn’t know her own culture, how it works. Except for this little thing with Yadira and a few others, I have been good to her. Everybody knows that.
They are all going to wonder why she left. They’ll look at me as though I got drunk, beat her and the boy.
If they see me here, every night, alone, they’ll know I couldn’t do that, that it was just the cultural thing, that I got caught. Maybe some will even
feel sorry for me. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll stay here. Alone. As long as it takes.
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Skipjack Joe
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Good one.
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Iflyfish
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Speaking of Tiger Woods.......great story, love the ruminations....
Iflyfish
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Osprey
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Joe, Soul, Flyguy, thanks for reading/comments. There are layers of culture I didn't touch on -- the short piece tells you the main character works at
a hotel but I don't tell you if he's rich/middle/poor. In our village we've had 3 recent breakups which ended in divorce where the wife got
cash/land/house/cars, etc and the man walked. The families were well heeled. Cultures change but human nature tells me the story is less plausible
when the risk/reward can only be measured in self-protection vs expectations that don't involve pesos or property. Maybe it would be safe to say
culture runs deeper in the poorest families. It's all they have and it's very valuable.
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